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A different side of me.
Afraid of rejection he created a prison of his own design.

When he got there love had a moving sign.
Looking for her all he could find.

A letter from her telling him that love has left him behind.
15 years of loneliness love is unkind.

He always thought love never ends like the never ending story.
He found comfort and healing in poetry.©M.P.Jacobs
She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.

Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.

Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.

Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.

But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.

But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.

...Now please, could you spare a dime?
Dedicated to Elise, who, when faced with my tangled mouthful of flattery, somehow saw through to the part of me that’s actually worth a ****.
They are telling me to fight
Just to hold on
My my dreams aren't reality
I just want to be done
They say hope for the best
In a world where if you aren't the best
You must continue to live under the rest
I want to be gone
I am all alone
No one will accept me
Needing
               To
                   Say
                         Goodbye
                                         Before
                                                    I
                                                      Slip
                                                             Up
                                                                  In
                                                                      A
                                                                         Slip knot
I am often asked:
"How can one find poetry in such a damaged and desolate world?"

The answer is simple:

Poetry can be found anywhere.

It is the sorrow that drives our tears,
the sunshine that brings us joy,
our companion in the darkness,
and that which guides us to the light.

It is the music of our spirit,
the gentle beating of our hearts.
The triumphant wind on the mountaintop,
a source of comfort in a rainy forest.

It is the scream of a father in pain,
the gentleness of a newborn child.
It is the chaos of a raging river
and the calm of a summers day.

Poetry can be found anywhere.
There's a time to be silent
and a time to speak.
Life is scary in RSA
with our power cuts,
water issues
and general decline.
People are feeling anxious
about what is and
what is coming,
those that cant or wont
leave the country.

Brazen politicians,
reminds me of the book
"Animal Farm"
a revolution
Communism revisited
Everyone is equal
but some more equal than others

Revolt
peasant and person
all people alike

If I could ask you
to consider me
in your prayers,
it would be that I be safe
and supported and happy
doing what I love to do
and that people
around me feel the same,
most especially you x
Seek
Solution
Need
Restitution
When will
These people
Marked by
Color
And known
By grace
Have a voice
That isn’t only
A chorus
Beautiful African thing.
You are worth more than
a million things often
times You don't realize
you worth more than a dream.
Love who youve become,
love your skin

realizing you are so sweet
just like milk tea.
Beautiful African girl
do not be afraid
and not accomplish
things.
Look back at this
and realize what you mean.

Beautiful african girl
you’ve got a dream
go fulfill it never-stop
in what you believe.
I want to build your high horse a stable
let it rest a while
let it lay down with mine.

I want to mill that hot air
see it put to use
turning wheels
blowing glass
warming the soil after a frost.

We'll skip stones across still ponds which once were cast in judgement.

See all that manure bring forth lush vegetation
so that winged beasts may perch and call to the spring.
Denial ponders its motion in rewind
Fire is mesmerizing, the touch is relentless
Forgiveness for most is a word,
Others believe it is a religious belief
Energy negative or positive,
You choose your understanding
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